Chapter 141: Volume 2, - 141: Blue Shirts by the Waterfront

Chapter 141: Volume 2, Chapter 141: Blue Shirts by the Waterfront

The wind coming off the River Mersey had a sharp, maritime bite that smelled of damp stone, salt, and old engine oil.

At 16:30 sharp, the Sporting travelling party moved out from the side entrance of the Liverpool hotel in a loose, staggered formation. Two fitness staff bracketed the group, one ahead and one behind, keeping the pace steady whenever somebody drifted toward a shopfront or slowed to look across the river. The objective was simple: ease the residual soreness from Sunday’s Villarreal minutes, shake out the stiffness from last night’s travel, and keep blood moving through tired legs.

Rayan walked between Eduardo Quaresmo and Afonso Morel, his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his Sporting-issued travel jacket. Above them, a slate-grey sky stretched over the waterfront, broken only by wheeling gulls screaming past the brick gables of the Albert Dock. A red double-decker bus rumbled past on Strand Street, its tyres hissing against the damp asphalt.

"I’m telling you, the bass on that track is completely muted if you’re using the standard factory presets," Morel was saying, shaking his head as he adjusted his wireless earphone. "You have to boost the low end manually, otherwise it sounds like it’s playing inside a tin can."

"You just listen to too much rubbish garage," Quaresmo retorted, ducking his chin against a sudden gust that whipped across the wide open plaza near the Museum of Liverpool. "Put some actual hip-hop on or give me the other bud."

"What about you, El Mansouri?" Morel asked, turning his head sideways. "Are you really into that old-school French rap stuff?"

"It’s not weird, it’s just better than whatever you find on the viral charts," Rayan defended with a faint grin.

"Listen to the kid," Quaresmo laughed, clapping a heavy hand onto Rayan’s right shoulder. "He’s fifteen and he talks like a retired coach from the nineties."

As they curved around the paved esplanade toward the Pier Head, the city’s ordinary rhythm unfolded around them. Office workers in dark overcoats hurried toward the bus stops, tourists with bulky cameras paused to look up at the towering Liver Bird statues perched atop the Royal Liver Building, and local teenagers in blue trainers kicked an empty plastic bottle across the pavement. A pair of city council sweepers paused beside a green waste bin, leaning on their brushes to watch the athletes move past.

A group of three men leaning against a low stone wall near the ferry terminal suddenly straightened up as the green-and-white tracksuits drew level. One of them, wearing an Everton home jersey under an open waterproof coat, did a sharp double-take.

"Bloody hell, it’s Gyoker," the man muttered loudly, nudging his mate in the ribs. "Here to check out Goodison early, are you, Viktor? Save your goals for Saturday!"

Viktor Gyoker didn’t break his stride, offering a dry, flat nod and a brief wave without slowing down.

"Three-one Saturday, lads!" another supporter called out, grinning as he crossed his arms. "Don’t expect it to be like a stroll in Lisbon!"

Pedro Gonsalves laughed over his shoulder, flashing both thumbs without breaking stride. "Bring your boots, then! We’ll need someone to chase our wingers!"

"Ey, Pedro! Give us a wave for the grandkids!" the third supporter shouted, pulling out a battered smartphone and waving it frantically.

The supporter raised his phone quickly and caught a photograph as the squad passed, the shutter clicking just as Pedro tossed a cheerful wink back at them. Quaresmo and Morel maintained the rolling recovery pace, stepping past the group without losing a beat, while Rayan instinctively drifted a fraction closer, subtly squaring his shoulders in case a wider group shot was happening.

The supporter with the phone lowered his camera instantly after the flash, blinking down at Rayan.

"Who’s the mascot?" the man asked, squinting through the drizzle with a friendly, puzzled grin. "Are you taking the under-twelves round Europe now, mate?"

Morel let out a sharp snort of laughter, and Quaresmo didn’t even bother hiding his grin, nudging Rayan in the ribs with his elbow.

"He’s fifteen, mate. Don’t let the face fool you," Quaresmo said smoothly in English, pointing a thumb at Rayan.

"Fifteen?" the Everton fan repeated, whistling low through his teeth. "Bloody hell. I was still playing schoolyard stuff on a gravel pitch at fifteen. Keep at it, kid."

Rayan felt a slight, hot prickle rise up the back of his neck. He forced a neutral, polite nod, keeping his mouth shut as he walked past them to catch up with the group.

"Ouch. The mascot?" Morel teased quietly once they were twenty metres clear, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Did that hurt the ego, Rayan? You looked ready to sign an autograph."

"Shut up," Rayan muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I wasn’t trying to sign anything."

"Of course not," Quaresmo laughed. "Next time you want a photo with the fans, just tell Viktor to stand behind you so they actually look at the frame."

"Leave him alone, he’s processing the English welcome," Morel grinned, adjusting his jacket collar against the wind.

They reached the turnaround point near the historic dock gates, where the fitness coach blew a sharp two-finger whistle to bunch the squad back together before the return leg. The wind was at their backs now, pushing them gently toward the shelter of the hotel while cars hummed past on the adjacent road, kicking up fine sprays of mist from the tarmac.

As they walked past a row of rain-slicked benches, Rayan pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. He unlocked it, opened the camera app, and framed a quick shot of the misty river, the dark line of the distant shipping cranes, and the heavy grey sky pressing down over the Mersey. For a second, his thumb hovered over the share icon, tempted to drop it onto his story. Then, with a quiet sigh, he locked the screen and slid the device back into his pocket without posting anything.

"Alright, group, pick it up slightly! Let’s get back before the heavy rain starts!" the coach called out, waving them forward.

As the squad quickened their pace toward the hotel doors, a young kid in a blue Everton hoodie standing by a newsagent kiosk cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled across the street.

"Hey! Sporting! You’re getting battered on Saturday!"

Hidemasa Morino turned his head, flashed a quick, knowing grin across the tarmac, and shouted back in clear English:

"Impossible!"

A ripple of laughter rolled through the squad as they crossed the final threshold, stepping out of the damp northern wind and into the warm, quiet interior of the hotel lobby.

Vasco stood by the reception pillar with a clip-mounted digital stopwatch, checking each player off against his printed roster as they filed past the carpeted entrance. "Directly up to the second floor, everyone," Vasco directed, waving his pen toward the elevators. "Hydration checks and massage treatments first, then nineteen-thirty for the squad meal."

Rayan unzipped his jacket, shaking off a handful of rain droplets onto the mat before joining Quaresmo and Morel near the elevator bank. He cast one quick glance back through the double-paned glass doors toward the grey expanse of the waterfront, feeling the cold air leave his cheeks as the ambient warmth of the hotel took over. Behind him, the senior players were already unzipping their travel gear, calling out room numbers, and heading upstairs to complete their post-walk recovery checks.